Mother Issues
by whitetiger91
Summary: Peter Pettigrew knew he had done the right thing, the sacrifice he had made more than enough to warrant his own feeling of pride. Unfortunately, he knew not everyone—including those who counted the most—would be able to see it that way.


**Mother Issues**

 _ **A/N: This fic was originally written for the QLFC Round 5, character study: Peter Pettigrew. Unfortunately, the little rat gave me so much trouble I ended up doing a completely different fic: 'Betrayed.' Despite the fact that he might sound a little more adult in his thoughts (which I will eventually fix), I still wanted to publish this anyway and see what you all thought of it, especially as it took the majority of the round to write and perfect it and I didn't want that time and effort to go to a complete waste :) A huge thank you to my many betas! This is Mal's other fic because she seems to be one of Peter's very few fans lol Xx**_

* * *

 _ **November 5, 1981**_

Tiny clouds of dust rose as Peter scampered along, determined to not let his aching muscles slow him down. It was hard to gain any sort of fast pace with the space where his toe should have been constantly throbbing. Still, he pushed himself forward, blades of grass scratching at his fur. He needed to find shelter and there was only one house that fitted that description.

The grass and dirt soon gave way to grey bitumen as he entered the town. His tiny heart thumped when the cries of a stray dog rang out, the howling echoing through his head.

No, it couldn't be _him_. He was safely locked away in Azkaban. Even if he somehow managed to escape, Sirius could not blame him for what he had done; none of them could. It was selfish for them to think he should risk his life for James and his little family, when it was likely none of them would've done the same for him. These self-assurances didn't stop his fur from standing on end, however, and despite almost a week of searching for a safe place behind him, he pushed on.

For once, the small shack looming before him was a welcoming sight. Tucked between two identical red-brick houses, the weatherboard seemed to gleam in the sunlight, its peeling, white paint a stark contrast to the wooden fence claiming a narrow strip of dirt on either side. With his whiskers and ears twitching, Peter took a moment to sniff the air, checking for the scent of possible enemies. It seemed all clear; the stench from the nearby sewage pipes hadn't changed in years, and while the scent of cat feces wasn't pleasant, it wasn't threatening either.

Confident that he was in no immediate danger, Peter scurried along the side of the house and up the wall. Settling himself on the window ledge, he peered past the tattered, dusty pink curtains to see if the house was empty. His mother, her dress just as dreary as the curtains, stood in the kitchen, a letter in her shaking hand. Peter watched as she scanned it, mouth parted, her frown adding to the creases lining her forehead.

Fantastic, she was in another one of her moods. Wouldn't she just love it when he walked through the front door, asking if she could hide him? What would he say? 'Hi, Mum, I just framed a man, and now I need to move back in'? Yes, that would go down nicely. Just like everyone else in his life, his mother never did believe that he could be independent.

* * *

 _ **September 3, 1965**_

"'Bye, sweetie. Go on, off you go with the other kids now."

"No." Peter dug his fingers into his mother's leg, shaking his head and burying it into the soft material of her skirt.

"C'mon, Pete, I know you'll have lots of fun. Look, Timmy is here; you had fun with him yesterday, didn't you?" his mum pleaded.

Peter shook his head again, determined not to let his mother go. He didn't want to play with the other children. All they did was try to tell him what to dress up as during play, or to make him trade his muesli bar for an apple.

His mother sighed, reaching down to pry his fingers away from her legs. "Please, Pete, Mummy needs to go to work."

Jutting out his lip, he wrapped his arms around her leg as far as they would go. His mother could take him home and they could stay together instead.

"No," he repeated.

"Mrs Hopkirk is waiting for you," his mother said. "Look, she's waving at you!"

Peter lifted his head and peeked over at the plump woman. Her large teeth were turned up into a smile and she beckoned him to her with a chubby hand. Around her neck, a gaudy, yellow beaded necklace hung, clashing violently with the cherry red of her dress. He wasn't fooled by any of it; as soon as his mother left, his teacher would turn into a fiery dragon and yell at everyone.

"I don't care."

"Peter John! I'm serious; I need to leave."

Peter stared up at her, his eyes wide at her harsh tone. His chin began to wobble, tears welling up in his eyes. Still, he would not let go, watching as his mother looked from his teacher to the door, her cheeks turning red. She was always trying to get rid of him; why couldn't she take him with her?

He was aware of his classmates beginning to laugh at him, the taunts of being a 'mummy's boy' spinning through his head. He could also hear his teacher trying to coax him to sit on the floor, her voice becoming more strained by the minute. He blocked them all out, clawing at his mother's leg.

She tried to shake him off, her leg jiggling underneath him. Her fingers tried to pry his fingers off, sighing every time she would loosen one only to have the others clamp back onto her. Peter knew he was winning and smiled.

"Oh, stop being such a baby, Peter! Why can't you be like the other boys? They don't need their mothers at school with them. You're being silly now!" his mother yelled.

It was enough to make him let go, sliding to the floor with a dull thud. He watched his mother walk to the door, marching through it without looking back or blowing him a kiss. The tears fell freely down his cheeks now, his mother's betrayal no match for the comforting words of his teacher as she tried to move him away.

Why didn't his mother want him?

* * *

Peter pressed his dusty pink nose against the window, trying to make out what the letter was. His mother's back was turned to him, and as she made it to one particular part of the letter, Peter could see her eyes widen. Rushing to the table, she lifted up an envelope and shook it. Peter squinted to see a pale, round object—something that looked quite like an uncooked potato chip—fall from the envelope, rolling onto the table. Ah, his finger. His front paw throbbed again looking at it, and once more, he cursed Sirius for causing him to cut it off. If the man had just let things go, if he hadn't chased him, then Peter would still have five fingers on his hand.

Wiggling his paw to alleviate the feeling, he peered back to his mother's face, watching as the colour drained from her face. Had she got to the part where the Ministry told her that he had been awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class? Did those fools even think he was worthy enough to receive one? He had heard the high praise they had bestowed upon him after they cleaned up the Muggle mess, but perhaps it was all for show.

Surely his mother should be proud of the sacrifice that he had made? Any other mother would be; to have a son who had given up his life? Alas, that would be asking too much of his own mother; his mother could never be proud of him.

* * *

 _ **June 25, 1971**_

Peter pushed open the front door, not caring that it swung back against the wall with a bang. Waddling into the kitchen, he threw his bag at the door and slumped into a seat. Walking from school had exhausted all his energy, particularly as his teacher believed that it was perfectly acceptable to set homework every night, piling him up with books to improve his skills. The books were useless of course; Mrs. Wilcock didn't seem to understand that no matter how many times she explained the problems, and no matter how many times she would yell when he didn't get an answer right, he would never understand it. The least she could do was stop his peers from calling him 'dumbass', 'retard', and other names, or explain to his mother that helping him with his homework was more important than her work. But no, she and all of his other teachers only cared about the popular kids; he simply wasn't worth their attention or time.

His stomach grumbled, so he looked around the kitchen for something to eat, his eyes clapping on a pile of letters sitting by the chipped fruit bowl. One of the envelopes, sitting at the top of the pile, was addressed to him. Snatching it up, he ran a stout finger over it, marvelling at the elegant green cursive. No one ever wrote to him. He flipped it over and tore open the creamy paper, the wax seal too hard to break. Taking out the letter, he scanned its words; twice, to make sure he understood them. A grin broke across his face and he turned to the door, hearing his mother arrive home.

She would be pleased; he had gotten into Hogwarts, just like his father had. Whenever she mentioned his father, his mother's eyes would glisten with tears, but she would smile, telling Peter about all the wonderful things he had learnt at the school of magic. Peter had listened to the stories eagerly, torn between anger that his father had not been there to tell the tales himself and excitement that he, too, could be a great wizard and run around with a group of friends.

Scraping back his chair, Peter ran to the door, waving the envelope in front of his mother's face.

"Guess what came to—?"

"Peter, help me with these bags, please," his mother interrupted, lifting up the brown paper bag almost slipping from her fingers.

Rolling his eyes, he took it, shoving it on the kitchen counter where it promptly fell over, spilling out a bundle of carrots. His mother placed the remaining bags on the counter before pushing back a few strands of brown hair that had fallen into her face. Grey circles were underneath her eyes, becoming more prominent as her eyes widened when she looked at the kitchen floor.

"Oh, Peter, what did I tell you about taking your shoes off before coming inside? You've managed to drag dirt across the linoleum, and Mr Haggarty will be furious if there are anymore scuffs marks on his floor." His mother sighed, walking over to grab the broom.

Peter huffed and rolled his eyes again. Following her around the kitchen as she swept, he placed the letter underneath her nose.

"Surprise!"

"What, Pete—oh." His mother placed the broom against the counter and took the letter from him, her eyebrows raised. "This isn't from school again, is it?"

Peter smiled. "Read it."

"Alright." His mother's eyes scanned the paper, widening as she came to the end. "Oh, there's quite a few required items… but we'll manage. Congratulations, Peter," his mother said, a small smile on her face.

She ruffled his hair with her hand and propped the letter on the cupboard up against the wall, where Peter's school picture and a few grocers coupons sat.

Peter's heart sank as he watched her put away the groceries. What? No party? Billy's mother threw him a huge party last week when he got an early acceptance into some posh high school. He had heard there was cake, balloons and quite a few presents, going by what the kids at school said. Where was his party? Where were his gifts?

Fuming, he sat back down at the table, refusing to help. His mother glanced at him and her smile widened. Fixing them a cup of tea, using just one teabag, she came to sit down.

"A new school, huh? Are you looking forward to going?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I don't blame you. I wish I could go; it sure would be exciting, learning magic."

"Mmm."

His mother chuckled, ignoring the way he folded his arms and refused to meet her gaze. "I'm a little surprised. I remember back in your second week of kindergarten, you didn't want to go off to school. I practically had to drag you away."

Peter looked up, glaring. Yes, and she had never been around since then. His mother's smile faltered, and she went back to sipping her tea. Every now and then, she would glance at her watch as though she was counting down the minutes when she escape from him and leave for work. Well, good. He couldn't wait until he could leave for Hogwarts and get away from her either, let alone his horrible teacher and peers.

* * *

His mother was staring at his finger on the table, her chest heaving up and down, as he collapsed into the chair farthest from his remains. It was a moment before she was

Another howl from a stray dog in the distance had him twisting his neck away, heart palpitating. Had Sirius somehow managed to communicate with other mutts? Were they after him, trying to get revenge? No, he was being ridiculous.

Turning back to the window, he saw his mother had resumed reading the letter. Ha, wouldn't she love to say 'I told you so,' when she discovered that his friend was responsible for his 'death.' Then, when he told her the truth, she would probably blame his friends for turning him into a murderer. Even when he did have friends, his mother never approved of them.

* * *

 _ **December 28, 1975**_

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"

Peter stared at the table, shrugging. He hadn't realised that Hogwarts would send his mother a letter, let alone that Dumbledore would feel it necessary to include him in the drama.

"Look at me, Peter, this is serious. I didn't get angry when you were caught skipping classes to hang with those friends of yours, nor did I say anything when Professor Mc-Mc—who was it? Nevermind—I didn't say anything when your professor told me you were caught mucking around in her lessons.

"This, however, this… well, you went too far this time."

Peter sighed and looked up, watching his mother pinch her nose. "It's not that bad. Snivellus is still alright."

"That boy could've died!"

"But he didn't. Anyways, it was Pad—Sirius' idea. I didn't do anything."

It really wasn't his fault. He had only let Snivellus into the Whomping Willow; it was Sirius who told Snivellus to go down the hole where Remus was waiting. Yet, of course his mother wouldn't see it that way.

"You are just as guilty in this! How do you imagine that poor boy's mother would've felt if her son had been killed?"

Peter shrugged again. He couldn't see that anyone would be all that upset if the git died. His lips twitched a little, remembering the terrified look on Snivellus' face.

His mother's eyes flashed. Looking at him, she said, "I don't think it's funny. You surely won't either when I tell you that you certainly won't be hanging out that group anymore. A _Werewolf_? When were you going to tell me that one of them was a Werewolf?"

"You can't do that! They're my friends!"

"What sort of friends would let you get into trouble like that? Let alone put themselves in danger? No, you will be finding some new friends next term."

Gritting his teeth, Peter glared at his mother. His face felt hot, and his chest heaved up and down. What did his mother know about his mates? These boys were the first friends he had ever made; the first people who didn't think he was worthless scum. They might've been bossy, too, but they were actually cool! Everyone was jealous of their group and wanted to be a part of it, and for the first time, Peter could turn them away. The power felt fantastic, and he would never give that up.

Across the table, his mother sighed and closed her eyes. Rubbing her temple, she asked, "What happened to you, Peter? You used to be such a good, quiet boy."

* * *

Well, one thing was for sure, his mother couldn't say that he hadn't taken her advice and got rid of his friends in the end. Nevertheless, he couldn't delay it any further. He might as well go and tell his mother that her failure of a son was back and needed to be hidden from both Muggles and Wizards.

Peeking through the curtains at her once last time, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Trails of water shone on her cheeks, wisps of greying brown hair sticking to them. She was clutching the letter to her chest, and her lips were mouthing something. Pressing his dusty pink nose against the cold glass, he tried to make out her words, the glass muffling them.

"Pe- my b- oh, Pe- bra-e oy. Sac-icin- you-lf. -eter."

His ears twitched forward, determined to hear what it was. Concentrating, he was able to understand her next words much better.

"My boy, my brave boy. I'm so proud," she said, body now wracked with sobs.

Peter sat back on his hind legs, head tilted. She was proud of him? Shouldn't she be angry that he let himself get 'killed'? Shouldn't she be screaming that he was a failure? His eyes began to sting, chest tightening, as he watched her bury her face into her hands.

Turning away from the window, he scuttled across the ledge and down the pipe. His mother was proud of him. Proud. The one thing he was ashamed of had made his mother proud.

Maybe he had done the right thing after all.


End file.
